


Requiem for the Living

by Curlee_Cue



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dark fic, M/M, Serial Killer, Still, dexter-inspired but only just very loosely, it's dexter, probably not the healthiest relationship, so obviously some talk of blood and killing and blah blah blah
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-26
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-27 17:15:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/981530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Curlee_Cue/pseuds/Curlee_Cue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles knows his predilections aren’t what most would call normal. He realizes it the first time he dismembers a daddy long legs -- meticulously plucking each of its legs just to see how frantically the remaining limbs writhe – and looks up to find Claudia staring at him, slack jawed and <i>beautiful</i>.</p><p>But he loves the gasps and terrified glances she shoots him every time she catches him -- burning a trapped squirrel or squeezing a frog till his fat little thumbs pierce clear through its bloated belly. He loves the beautiful pallor and flared nostrils that decorate her face, so easy, so instantaneous. He loves it so much, Stiles wonders what pleasure she might bring him for killing something human.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *phew* Finally got this baby up and running. Full disclosure: I'm writing this as I go, and I can make absolutely zero guarantee about the frequency with which I will update (though obviously, the more interest there is, the more pressured I will feel to write faster =P). All I can say is that I'm super psyched about this fic, I have a general outline, and I'm hoping for bi-weekly updates. So if all that doesn't scare you off, read on!

John Stilinski is the first person Stiles tries to kill. John is thirty-three years old; Stiles is seven. It’s poor planning on Stiles’ part. He attacks without premeditation, shoving exasperatingly small hands against John’s back at the top of the staircase. Had he taken the time to plan, he would have thought to wait another half a second for John to take his first step, using the motion as leverage to unbalance the heavier weight. 

But Stiles is young. He is still learning. 

John scolds Stiles. Playing on the stairs is dangerous, John tells him. Daddy could have gotten hurt. Stiles can’t understand why John doesn’t see that that was sort of the point.

In retrospect, Stiles thinks it’s pretty lucky he bungled up his first attempt. After all, John contributed half his DNA towards Stiles’ conception, and as far as the rest of the world is concerned, that makes John significant to Stiles’ life. 

It takes Stiles a long time to understand this, the particular import people place on the relationship shared between a father and son. It takes him even longer to control his resultant irritation at the absurdity of it all, such value given so trivial a connection.

But Stiles learns to appreciate these cultural absurdities, learns to savor them even. Because while he is quite certain that he will never see the “inherent” value others insist exists in familial ties, he quickly realizes the value in others’ estimation of their worth. 

Stiles knows his predilections aren’t what most would call normal. He realizes it the first time he dismembers a daddy long legs -- meticulously plucking each of its legs just to see how frantically the remaining limbs writhe – and looks up to find Claudia staring at him, slack jawed and _beautiful_.

But he loves the gasps and terrified glances she shoots him every time she catches him -- burning a trapped squirrel or squeezing a frog till his fat little thumbs pierce clear through its bloated belly. He loves the beautiful pallor and flared nostrils that decorate her face, so easy, so instantaneous. He loves it so much, Stiles wonders what pleasure she might bring him for killing something human.

Claudia is the reason Stiles tries killing John. He wants to see that _look_ in her eyes. It is her Stiles watches as his pathetically childish hands shove at John, and it is him Claudia stares at, horrified, as John -- always so trusting -- reprimands his son’s innocent attempt at fun. 

For a while, this admittedly juvenile effort nevertheless proves enough to stave off Stiles’ humming desires. Claudia has always been so quick to respond to Stiles’ pastime just right, shrinking back in silent panic; but after the staircase incident, all Stiles has to do is exist in the same space as her, and Claudia grows still, tense and trembling all over. 

Stiles wonders why she never says anything to John. Perhaps she does. Stiles listens in on a few fierce arguments, furious whispers that hush whenever he appears. He thinks John might think Claudia is going crazy. He certainly treats her like it if the careful touches and shifty eyes are anything to go by. Stiles knows John values family more ferociously than anyone else he’s ever met, and he suspects John can’t be taking well to the sort of accusations Claudia might be making. 

Stiles will never know for sure. Claudia’s cancer takes over soon after, trouncing all fights with one swift hospital visit, and Stiles doesn’t care enough to ask. 

Stiles is actually sorry to see her go when the cancer appropriates his favorite audience member. Because even if she was trying to expose him, Stiles wouldn’t have taken it personally. Claudia is the only person who sees Stiles for what he is, the only person who sees past Stiles’ conveniently childish face, blackness shrouded in pretty porcelain skin. 

In her place, he might have done the same. 

And then followed up with a solid blow or two to the head.

But Stiles does take it personally when the cancer dares to beat him at his own game. 

It cloys at him to see something so small and inconspicuous accomplish exactly what Stiles himself has struggled so hard to do with such apparent ease. It begins its attack long before anyone notices, and is inescapable by the time it finally makes its presence known. 

Stiles finds it exceedingly amusing that his first petty emotion is that of jealousy incited by his mother’s cancer. 

But Stiles comes to terms with Claudia’s cancer soon enough. In fact, he is more grateful to it than he suspects he will ever be to anything or anyone else. Because Stiles’ mother’s cancer teaches him the most valuable lesson of all: always remain inconspicuous. 

Stiles is not blessed with the indiscernible form of a parasitic cell; he can’t stow away deep within, slowly destroying people from the inside out. But he is gifted with something close enough: the power to blend in. 

Stiles’ appearance is young to the point of cherubic comparison. He knows this because it bothers him endlessly throughout his childhood. He hates his youthful features, hates the way they make others treat him: dotingly possessive, like he is theirs to order about at will. He hates his weak, lean build even more. It renders him incapable of retaliation. His body is too small, his face too round, his skin too pale and rosy to do anything but entertain people with his playful displays of violence, as Martha, the grocer’s wife, likes to call it. ‘You’ve got quite the prankster on your hands,” she laughs to John when Stiles spills the contents of his water bottle along the aisles one day, hoping for her to slip and fall and crack her grey-speckled head against the white rubber flooring until the white is red, and the grey is black. 

(She escapes unharmed.)

His ‘gift’ only presents its true purpose in the months following Claudia’s death. Because while Stiles is no ductal carcinoma, he is a cancerous cell of his own – one that blends in just as seamlessly, hidden in plain sight.

Stiles begins fabricating a persona for himself in the time between Claudia’s death and his transition into middle school. He couldn’t have hoped for better timing. The allotted mourning period mandated by society works wonderfully in his favor. Suffering changes a person, or so he is told. Adults rest irritating hands of ‘comfort’ upon his shoulder. They promise that things will get better. And when John turns up either drunk or hungover in the weeks and months following his return to work, colleagues look the other way. They allow it. Because death and suffering change a person. 

But Stiles sees Claudia’s death for what it really is: it is a free pass to transform himself altogether. A free pass. 

Stiles uses his pass. He becomes a new Stiles. One who tries too hard and speaks too loudly. This Stiles is awkward and clumsy and participates in online communities that battle mythical creatures in his spare time. He is nosy and intrusive. He is sarcastic and witty and terrible at school. He moves around constantly, both physically and mentally, until everyone around him rages and fumes and finally yells for him to just. Stop.

Stiles plays his role so well, he convinces everyone he has ADHD. The medical proof is a welcome bonus. 

The irony doesn’t slip past Stiles. It affords him no small measure of entertainment knowing that the only time he ever shares a room with a psychiatrist, he is being treated for ADHD. He wonders what his string of psychiatrists might think if they knew who they really have on their overstuffed office chairs once every month.

This new Stiles is the perfect camouflage. He is so indiscreetly hyperactive, so wildly unrestrained, people think they can read him like a book, see every candid display of emotion and consideration on his face and trust that if they miss anything, he will certainly fill them in somewhere along the way with his wildly endless prattling. 

No one ever thinks to question his overly interested pestering about crime scene photos and murder incidents. No one ever thinks to question the morbid proclivity of his jokes. No one ever thinks to question what he does alone in his room or out in the woods when no one is looking.

And for this, Stiles is glad.

But personality alone isn’t enough. His persona is incomplete. Stiles knows this. He needs to be a chameleon so well hidden, the people around him do the camouflaging for him. John Stilinski is a good starting point – being the Sheriff’s son offers more benefits than Stiles first realized prior to Claudia’s death. Still. It isn’t until Scott McCall enters his eighth grade math class that Stiles receives just the opportunity he’s been looking for.

Scott McCall, with his nervous, open grin. Scott McCall with the darkened cloud of abuse stories surrounding him everywhere he goes. Scott McCall with his uneven jaw, so crooked and off center and practically begging to be broken. 

Stiles’ first instinct is not one of friendship. Scott comes from an abusive home. He’s moved to Beacon Hills with his mother to escape a violent father if the rumors circulating through the town are to be trusted. Stiles has never met someone forced so close to pain before, someone so intimately familiar with its delicious burn. He is twelve and hungry and Scott McCall looks absolutely ravishing.

But Scott has a family and a warm personality and people like him. Taking Scott McCall’s life is not an option. So Stiles takes the next best thing: his friendship. 

With Scott as his best friend, Stiles blends in better than ever – because with Scott by his side, Stiles becomes less than a person; he becomes half a person. Scott and Stiles, Stiles and Scott, the inseparable duo. Where there is one, the other is certainly not far off, and no one ever bothers to pay just-Stiles any attention anymore. 

Stiles will admit that he might overdo it with the friendship bit. He’s never had a friend before, and he isn’t quite clear on all the proper protocols, so he sticks to Scott like stained blood, impossible to wash out once it’s set in. He gets to Scott before anyone else can, stealing away all his free time and whittling his way into Melissa McCall’s life, too. Scott, fortunately enough, never minds; he seems to revel in it, so thirsty for love and validation that he never once refuses Stiles’ advances. And for this, Stiles forgives Scott for thwarting his initial desires.

In the years that follow, Scott plays his role perfectly. The two are so clumsy and awkward together that no one pays them any mind. He even covers for Stiles, too. When Stiles loses himself in the thrill of desperate thrashing, in the high pitched clicks and chirps a dying squirrel makes just before it takes its last breath, Scott answers the Sheriff’s calls and says that Stiles is with him, knocked out cold after an intense study session. Stiles knows because Scott always texts him immediately after, a head’s up. He never questions where Stiles goes or what he does, why he disappears for hours on end only to return late into the night, grinning and calm. 

Even if he did, it’s not as if Scott would ever suspect the truth. Probably wouldn’t believe it even if Stiles told him outright. Stiles is just that good.

The only time Stiles slips enough to risk revealing himself is the day Lydia Martin prances into homeroom on the first day of high school, haughty as usual and painted in make up for the first time. She is pretty, Stiles knows. He knows because everyone says so, hormonal teenagers whispering with want and jealousy through the hallways. But Lydia Martin never catches Stiles’ attention until she walks into school, cheeks artificially flushed and lips so red, they make Stiles ache. Ache to see the true red rushing underneath all that pale skin and pumping through the spindly little veins lining her delicate white wrists. He longs to repaint her face, paint it red all over, spread it thick and lovely through all that gorgeous strawberry blond hair. 

Stiles can’t stop staring at her. He can’t stop thinking about her. He watches her cocky little strut everywhere she goes. He trails after her in the halls and forgoes all semblance of the jittery, half-focused student whenever they share a class, lost in unwavering focus on the rhythmic beat of her jugular.

People start to notice. 

“Stay away from my girlfriend,” Jackson Whittemore growls against his lips one day, body slamming Stiles into a wall of cold metal lockers. Stiles registers the hot anger and chilling fear that rise up in his chest at the accusation. This is it, he thinks. All his hard work, and caught before he ever even got a chance to act; he welcomes the flood of relief that follows when Scott later explains, “Stiles, man. He’s kinda right. You can’t be so obvious about crushing on Lydia Martin. Everyone knows you’re obsessed.”

Which is true, Stiles thinks. Scott is right. He is obsessed. But not for the reason everyone seems to think -- though he certainly isn’t going to correct them any time soon.

It becomes a running joke. Stiles backs off, but only a little; instead of running from the attention he’s unintentionally stirred up, he plays it up. He professes his love for Lydia Martin every week or so. And why not? It allows him the odd fantasy while adding to his picture perfect teenage persona. He’s just an awkward teen, clumsily handling his first major crush. 

And in a way, he is. Stiles jerks off plenty before Lydia Martin starts wearing make up, rubbing out his morning wood and thrusting to the heated waves of a dream he can never remember. But it isn’t until Lydia Martin paints her lips red that Stiles begins initiating masturbation, stroking his soft, teenage dick to hardness as he plays the same mental clip on rerun, a fantasy of endless red and pain and fear.

And for a while, it’s enough. Secret fantasies played out in the solitude of his room, veiled in the darkness of night. But it doesn’t lasted long. If anything, it revs his desires into overdrive. It makes him desperate and groaning for the real thing. 

Stiles kills his first human when he is fourteen. Beacon Hills arranges for a series of career-oriented field trips, and Stiles and Scott settle on technology. The lacrosse coach, a Mr. Something Finstock, chaperones the trip, directing the bus driver to various companies throughout Silicon Valley. The visits are boring, the fresh, young CEO’s even more so, and it is only Finstock’s ridiculous blathering while he leads them through building after building that makes any of it remotely bearable.

They spend the weekend in San Francisco, arriving early Friday afternoon. The school has organized a full roster, jam packed with back to back visits, breaking only for meals and sleep. But on Sunday afternoon, there is a last-minute cancellation. Something about a server crash for the company they’d planned on visiting; Stiles never does get the full details. What he does get is a walking tour through some of San Francisco’s grungier districts. 

Finstock insists, claiming that anyone considering working in the city should see the very worst of it before deciding. And while Jackson Whittemore whines and complains and then finally just sniffs in disgust (though not before promising that his father will be hearing about this), Stiles stares slack-jawed and practically salivating, a kid in an abandoned candy shop.

Homeless people. Everywhere he looks, there they are. Milling about, often drunk, sometimes high, at times minding their own business, others yelling at everyone who passes. And some, some even sleep -- out in the open, unprotected, so unaware of their surroundings. Stiles can’t believe it. He’s never seen a homeless person before; Beacon Hills doesn’t have them. But here in San Francisco, they’re everywhere. So easy to sneak up on, to hurt, to kill. 

In the years it has taken Stiles to cultivate his public persona, he has thought up many a plan for the perfect kill. His dad is the sheriff; he has access to all kinds of criminal files, and Stiles makes fair use of them when his dad isn’t looking, studying the mistakes people before him have made: fingerprints, paper trails, blood, a body. The way Stiles sees it, the swiftest way to kill someone and get away with it is to make sure they never find the body. Without a body, there is no murder. Without blood or fingerprints or DNA, there is no case. Everything else is circumstantial, and Stiles can work with circumstantial.

He’s thought up a dozen different ways to safely sequester a body, to make the kill fast and quiet (and clean, ideally, but Stiles isn’t kidding himself. He knows the flow of blood is just as important to him as the kill itself) and walk away like nothing ever happened, never getting caught. But it isn’t enough. Planning the perfect kill isn’t just about the attack strategy or cleanup. The most important thing, the one vital and essential criteria for ensuring zero attention is selecting the right target. 

The one greatest mistake every violent criminal makes is attacking someone in their immediate social circle, anyone they ever interacted with publicly, whether positively or negatively. Family members, romantic partners, classmates and colleagues -- they are always the first to be interrogated. 

For Stiles, this translates into the entire population of Beacon Hills. It unsettles him to the point of near insanity. How can he kill someone and get away with it if he’s already interacted with everyone in killing distance?

He’s considered hitchhikers, but he still has another seven months before he can apply for his permit. He could go out of town, but with what excuse? He still lives with his dad; he’s still a minor. There’s no way to simply disappear unnoticed for a day or two.

This, though. This is a definite possibility. Sure, things will be tight. He hasn’t made any plans. It’s a bit reckless. But he’ll be leaving soon. Tomorrow morning in fact, and who would suspect a schoolboy on a career-day field trip of murder? With what time? As far as anyone else will know, he’s been under chaperoned supervision the entire time.

It will have to do.

Stiles plans everything out over dinner that night. He waits for the deep, even breathing from Scott’s bed before sneaking into the hotel kitchen to pilfer a steel blade chef’s knife. It’s late and he doesn’t want to get caught on any cameras, so he keeps his hood up as he walks back to the Tenderloin. He’d take a bus if he knew the system; then again, it’s probably better to stick to the shadows.

He skips the first two hobos he sees, wanting to find someone farther in. He stops when he smells the burning stench of too much alcohol emanating from a fat man curled in on himself on the pavement just outside a decrepit park. Stiles never did understand how someone too poor to afford rent could purchase enough booze or food to stay fat. But there are a lot of things Stiles doesn’t understand. 

He walks over to the man, debating whether or not to wake him. His face is partially obscured by a brown paper bag lolling up and down with every breath. He looks old, perhaps somewhere in his mid- to late- fifties. His hair is matted down with grease, bits of food and god knows what else stuck in his beard. He probably lives on McDonald’s and cheap vodka and dreams of family and a home. His wrinkles run deep, like he’s lived a hard and painful life. Stiles wonders if he should stab him through the heart or slit him open by the throat.

In the end, Stiles goes with the throat. It’s his first time, after all, and he’s not sure he can stab with enough precision to get the heart on the first try. Under better circumstances, he’d relish the challenge. Enjoy stabbing again and again until he got it just right. After all, practice makes perfect.

But these aren’t better circumstances. These are the least worst circumstances, just good enough to maybe get away with. It’s risky as all fuck, but Stiles is just desperate enough to finally take his chances. He’ll try to minimize the risk, of course, try to kill the guy swiftly, sacrifice the beautiful groans and screams in favor of the blood and death; but that’s all. That’s the best he can do. Stiles hasn’t tried killing someone in seven years and it’s about all he can take. Digging his fingers through bloody rabbit entrails only offers him so much relief. He needs to kill something that can understand, something that can look him in the eye and gift him with the same beautiful stare Claudia used to share with him. 

He wakes the guy up. Looks into his eyes, yellow-glazed with vodka and liver damage, and waits for them to focus enough to register the knife. Then he strikes. It’s harder than he thought, not nearly as smooth as he’s always imagined. It’s a stuttering motion, his fist twisting the blade unevenly as it cuts through skin and tendon and then scrapes against bone when he pushes too deep. He doesn’t really see at first. He’s too busy drowning in the guy’s eyes, wide and surprised, and – amusingly – angry. Though the fear quite easily overrides any other emotion. The guy chokes, makes a muffled gurgling sound. Stiles can feel his body writhing underneath him, which is funny because Stiles doesn’t remember moving closer to straddle the guy. Liquid spurts from his neck, a pretty little fountain of black, black like ink and the night and Stiles wishes it were brighter out so he could see the red he knows is there. 

Stiles feels more than sees the moment the life finally flickers out and dies, escapes the man’s body like a soul rising to heaven or sinking to hell. Though really, life doesn’t seem to escape the body so much as wither away and crumble to dust, like a demolished building caving in. The man’s eyes stop moving, staring at something they can no longer see, and his body stills, so quiet. 

The man is filthy and he smells like a terrible cocktail of liquor and piss and just a pinch of shit, and Stiles has never felt more aroused in his life. He feels alive, excited, rejuvenated, like a huge weight has lifted from his shoulders and he can finally relax. It feels like the hazy moments after a fantastic orgasm, his body loose and sluggish, but oh so fucking satisfied. Which is funny, really, because his dick has only just started, hard and begging as it presses insistently into the swollen stomach between his legs.

It’s too bad he can’t take a moment to jerk off. He needs to wrap things up, and anyway, leaving a DNA trail of sticky white cum probably isn’t in his best interest. He has to remind himself of this several times before he’s finally able to move into action. Though not before stroking tenderly through the gaping wound, blood hot and smooth, still trickling from the body in gentle rivulets, the muscle and tendon so stiff yet soft. He wants to rub his face in it; he knows he can’t. 

This man’s corpse may be beautiful, but it is no doubt infested with disease.

He shoves the body as far under a park bush as he can. The corpse is heavy, and it takes a few strained thrusts before he’s moved it into some semblance of obscurity. He isn’t really looking to make the body disappear; he just doesn’t want it to look like he’s trying to make some sort of statement by leaving him so out in the open. He doubts anyone will put any real effort into finding the guy’s killer. He’s obviously homeless. And a drunkard to boot. The authorities will likely put it down to a fight between two drug abusers that went too far, this mangled body the surviving addict’s poor attempt at hiding the evidence. 

It’s sloppy, but it’s the best he can do at the moment. Hopefully his amateur approach will work in his favor just this once.

Stiles makes his way back to the hotel kitchen, hood up in case he gets caught. He rinses the knife clean and returns in to its drawer. He takes a moment to relish in the knowledge that this knife will cook the hotel’s meals for years to come. It might even be used to cook up tomorrow’s breakfast.

Scott squints one eye partway open when Stiles enters the darkness of their room.

“Stiles?” he mumbles, still half asleep.

“Hey, buddy. Went looking for a vending machine. No luck, though. Go back to sleep.”

“Mm,” Scott sighs, already gone to the world once again. 

Stiles strides into the bathroom to wash off the stink of hobo. He’s thankful for the darkness of the hotel room when he shuts the door behind him. What he sees is both terrifying and beautiful. His reflection stares back at him from the bathroom mirror, his face flush and grinning and spattered with blood. He wonders briefly how he could have missed it. He remembers the spray of blood splashing up at him, remembers watching the varying thickness of each spurt, jumping up to place little kisses all along his arms and face. And yet he’d somehow forgotten that of course they wouldn’t have just vanished without a trace; of course they left their print, marked him for all the world to see. 

He stares at the lovely work of art and reaches a hand up to touch it. It’s dry and crusty in places, more black than red. He scrapes a fingernail experimentally against one opaque streak, just across his right cheek, and revels in the quiet scratching sound it makes as the hardened blood crumbles off in flakes. He doesn’t want to wash it off. He wants to keep it forever, tattoo it on his face and hands for everyone to see.

It’s too bad no one would appreciate it quite the way Stiles does. 

He assesses the extent of the damage. Now that he’s paying attention, he realizes there’s blood everywhere. On his hands, down his neck, seeped deep into his red hoodie, staining it with darker patches of red here and there. He should toss it. He knows he should. He should get rid of the clothes and the damning evidence.

But he can’t. He needs something to remember this momentous occasion by. He feels like he’s just been born, like he’s just taken his first real breath in a world where everything is as it should be, a world where everything is right.

He decides to keep the jacket. He’ll ditch the shirt at their halfway pit stop back to Beacon Hills, but the jacket stays. It’s already red anyway. It’s not as if people will suspect the dark patches littering its sleeves and collar to be anything more than food stains from Stiles’ meticulously messy eating. 

Later, as he stares at the reddish brown swirls whirling down the shower drain, Stiles thinks this must be what religion feels like. A transformative christening that forever changes the way you experience life. Everything seems so clear now, so fresh. He’s been baptized in an unholy sea of blood and death, and it feels like nirvana. It feels like complete and utter ecstasy. 

But that was nearly two years ago now, and while he’s killed a few more people since then (seven, to be exact), it’s been nearly three months since his last kill, and Stiles isn’t sure how much longer he can wait. He feels desperate, out of control. He wakes up gasping, suffocating like he’s drowning in a pool of unshed blood. He spends his days in a mindless daze, shaking and pale. Scott asks if he’s been abusing his Adderall again. John badgers him with worried glances. Mr. Harris sends him to the principal’s office, and Jackson Whittemore sneers and shoves him in the halls.

Stiles can’t think. He can barely breathe. He can only see and smell and feel, and what he feels is a deep and aching hunger for red. It’s all around him, everywhere he looks. Scott plasters on a smile over lunch, and Stiles thinks of slicing him a better one, like the Joker or the Black Dahlia. Lydia Martin wears a pink dress to school, and Stiles thinks of ways to dye it a better shade, one to bring out the red in all that pretty, flowing hair. John walks up behind Stiles while he’s chopping carrots for dinner one evening, and Stiles wonders whether he could stab the knife through his neck before he noticed enough to fight back. 

Stiles wakes up early one Saturday morning – sweating and dizzy – to the sound of muffled voices coming from the downstairs kitchen. He moves to get out of bed, every motion like wading through molasses, and steps closer to the stairs. 

“… the sheriff, that’s your job!” A woman’s voice. Mrs. Curtis, perhaps. She’s the most intrusive neighbor in all of Beacon Hills; even John can’t stand her.

“Look, Sally, I understand your concern, but running a background check without probable cause or proper authorization is against the law.”

“Cause?” The shriek is at once so shrill and nasal, Stiles thinks people might actually allow him a free pass for killing just this once. “What more cause do you need? No one knows him, he lives alone in that rundown shack of a building, and he hasn’t said a word to anyone since he’s moved in. Now why would you move to a town like Beacon Hills with no family and no friends? It’s fishy, is what it is. I’m telling you, John, the man is clearly up to something!” 

And just like that, Stiles can breathe again. His shaking subsides. The cold sweat feels refreshing. Stiles thinks he may have found his new kill.

Over the next two weeks, Stiles finds out everything there is to know about Beacon Hills’ newest resident. His name is Derek Hale. He lives in the rundown house near the preserve. No one’s lived there since before Stiles was born; it’s old and dilapidated and can’t have more than a few years left before it inevitably caves in on itself. Stiles isn’t sure how it got past the building inspection or why anyone would want to live in such a shithole, but apparently a little thing like possible death from collapsing beams isn’t about to deter Derek Hale from making it his home. 

(He hopes Derek isn’t quite so fearless with a knife against his throat; it would be so insensitive to kill Stiles’ fun in the name of some silly machismo bravery.)

He’s a carpenter of sorts, freelancing jobs around town and in ones nearby; it’s how Stiles learns about him, all the gossip Derek elicits – that and the illegal background check Stiles runs on him. 

Derek Hale is quite the tragic hero. Well, Stiles supposes ‘hero’ is too forgiving a word. In fact, Derek Hale is no hero at all. He lost his entire family to a fire six years ago. The newspaper articles list Derek as the sole survivor of the ten people in the house at the time. They found him standing just yards away from the house, frozen and unresponsive, trapped in the sight of the flames as they licked away the last of his family members’ lives.

Stiles thinks he was probably just trapped by the guilt of leaving his family to die, running out to save himself instead of dying in there with them. Stiles will never understand such emotional lunacy. 

But he can certainly appreciate it. Especially if it means Derek Hale remains as aloof and taciturn as everyone claims him to be. He responds to people’s requests, does his job, and takes his money. No smiles, no small talk, no making himself important to other people’s lives – no making himself important enough to care about should he go missing.

Sure, it’s still risky. Stiles would probably be better off skipping out of town for another weekend for a random kill, but he’s already killed in the cities close enough to visit and leave overnight, and while he doesn’t think another kill would get connected to his last few, he doesn’t want to risk it, either. 

Derek Hale, though, might be a safer option. He leaves town without notice, sometimes leaving so early and returning so late that no one sees him for days at a time. If he went missing, no one might even notice until days after the fact, possibly longer. Without a body, they might think he had a car accident, or got attacked in between towns. Better yet, they might just be glad to have the terse brute gone and put it down to his ostensibly nomadic ways, just up and leaving without telling anyone. 

Stiles hopes he hasn’t made too much of a home for himself in that ratty old bungalow of his. It’ll be easier to fake a spontaneous relocation if there aren’t too many personal touches throughout the house.

Stiles waits till Derek leaves. It’s the longest fucking wait of his life. Apparently being a hermit means not even leaving for groceries. Stiles has to leave and return three times before Derek finally loads into his truck and drives off the property. 

Stiles doesn’t wait to see where he’s going. At this point, he doesn’t care. All he wants is a quick glance around the house, a chance to get a lay of the land, so to speak. It’s likely that Stiles will have to kill him here. He’s never killed anyone in Beacon Hills and he doesn’t want to risk getting caught in the woods. But this could work. With this hut of a home as deep into the woods as it is, he shouldn’t have to worry about attracting any attention from any music Derek might croon. And if the building is as rundown on the inside as it looks on the outside, finding any accidental evidence should prove a formidable task.

But it’s not as rundown on the inside as it looks on the outside. When Stiles slips in (basic locks are way too easy to open), he’s greeted by a rather structurally sound entrance and living room. It’s not homey – not at all. Derek’s décor is more Spartan than some of the unfurnished dorm rooms he’s seen on impromptu college tours. There are no personal touches anywhere. The fire mantel lies unadorned. The walls stand empty of any picture frames. The wooden floors are naked and cold. But Stiles can see that Derek cares enough about this tattered building to make it livable. Either he’s an entrepreneur trying to sell it for more than he paid, or he’s trying to make a new home for himself. Something long term and close to him. Something worth spilling his sweat and energy over.

Stiles hopes he won’t mind spilling his blood over it, too.

(That’s a lie, of course. Stiles rather hopes he minds very much. After all, half the fun and all that.)

“What the hell are you doing in my house?”

Whoops. Stiles turns to face Derek Hale, who stands in the doorway seething like a vicious little beast. It’s the first time Stiles has seen him this close; he’s distantly surprised Derek has managed to make as bad an impression as he has given his looks. Because while Stiles may not derive sexual pleasure in the way that most people do, he’s not blind. He can tell that Derek is objectively attractive, strong jaw, piercing eyes, and a body taught with well-defined muscles. Derek Hale must be a grade-A asshole to have irritated people enough to override his physical appeal. Even Jackson Douchebag Whittemore has every girl at BHHS chasing after him. 

But not Derek, who, speaking of which.

“Uh… hi!” Stiles squeaks, pitching his voice just high enough to break.

“I said, _what the hell are you doing in my house_?”

“Ah, shit. Listen, man. I was just looking around. I didn’t even realize anyone had moved in yet!”

“I suppose the lock you picked to break into my house didn’t give you any hints.”

Stiles ducks his head low and rubs a hand up and down a few times across the back of his head. He’s going for nervous and guilty. “Uh… okay. Yeah. I guess that probably should’ve clued me in.” 

“You guess.”

Stiles bites his lip, huffs out a shaky laugh. “Or… you know. Definitely. It probably definitely should’ve clued me in.”

Derek glares unblinkingly at him. No one’s ever looked at Stiles quite that way; he’s not sure how to respond. He’s not even sure what it means. Then again, his Stiles persona probably wouldn’t either. His Stiles persona would probably just bulldoze through the uncomfortable tension with nonsensical jabbering. And so, he does.

“Though, not gonna lie. Kinda glad it didn’t. I mean, I thought this place was about to fall apart. You really fixed this place up. Seriously. It’s friggin’ impressive. Like, really impressive. Did you fix up those beams yourself? You must be some kind of talented. I bet you do this kind of thing for a living. Well, I can promise you one thing: you’ve made a loyal customer out of me. Not that I needed anything uh… _carpented_ … but uh… you know. I can… tell my dad… and stuff. I’ll get you so many customers, you won’t know what to do with them. Well, I mean. Except for fixing their shit. I mean. Stuff. Uh, anyway, thanks for the house tour. I gotta go. See you ‘round!”

It’s one of the longer monologue’s Stiles has given in the past few months, but Derek is so stonily unresponsive, he doesn’t even break his silence to shut Stiles up. It’s new, and a little unnerving, but mostly just wonderfully interesting. Stiles wonders if he’ll be able to get Derek to open up a little once he’s got his knife through his chest. 

Stiles doesn’t even try to hide the grin that blooms up at his own sordid little pun. 

But it drops when Derek blocks his way out the front entrance with one heavily muscled arm. Stiles has never killed someone so… burly before. He wonders if it will feel different, slicing through such toned musculature.

“What. Were you doing. In. My. House.”

“I already told you. Thought it was abandoned. Just wanted a quick—”

Stiles doesn’t get to finish his sentence. Derek’s got him slammed up against a wall before he can think to duck out of the way, a thickly corded forearm hot against his chest. 

“I’m not going to ask nicely again.”

“That was nice?” Stiles wheezes in careful panic.

Derek growls and presses harder, moving his leg closer, his knee pressed forward between Stiles’ legs for better leverage. His eyes glow with something inhuman, fiery and untamed. Both richer in life than anything Stiles has ever seen and dead in a way Claudia's eyes sometimes looked when leafing through old pregnancy photos. He’s angry. He wants a response. His posture and gnarled facial expression leave little room for interpretation.

But Stiles is suddenly too busy having an identity crisis to give Derek what he wants. 

Stiles typically has two default settings. Mildly amused and blindingly furious. There isn’t really any middle ground. The only reason Jackson Whittemore never sets off Stiles’ rage is that he’s too below Stiles’ radar for him to care. Jackson Whittemore is like one of those summer flies that pester you through the house, annoying and in the way, but not nearly worth the effort of actually getting up to kill it. Especially when it might put an end to all of Stiles’ fun.

But this, this is different. Derek is not an insignificant fly. He’s Stiles’ next target; he’s supposed to be _Stiles’_ plaything, not the other way around. He’s trying to assert his power over Stiles, and Stiles should want to grip him by the throat and squeeze until he writhes, put him in his place and make him submit.

And Stiles does. Oh, how very much he does. But not in the way he normally does.

Because just now, Stiles doesn’t think he wants to ram a hammer through Derek’s skull. Or, rather, he doesn't only want to ram a hammer through his skull. He thinks, oddly enough, he might also like to ram his dick through his ass instead, bend him over the newly built dining room table and break Derek Hale in ways Stiles never thought to consider. He thinks he might prefer to reach for Derek’s hair and yank until he screams – though in pleasure or pain, or perhaps some delicious mixture of both, Stiles isn’t sure. Stiles thinks he might want this.

He thinks.

But Stiles isn’t sure. 

It’s an interesting turn of events. He’s not even certain what’s set it off. Derek hasn’t changed in the ninety seconds since he first walked through the door. It’s not as if Stiles isn’t still keening with the yearning to kill. (Because he is.) But Stiles has never had a target fight back -- he’s never given them the chance – and he’s certainly never had anyone show Stiles the level of contempt Derek Hale seems to hold in his gaze, cold and hard and so recklessly savage, it reminds him a little of a painting he once saw, a frenzied mess of strokes and hues held together by vibrating chaos. It was an impressionist painting, he thinks.

Derek digs his arm still harder against Stiles’ chest. It’s time to find an out.

“Okay, okay, okay! It was a dare, alright?”

“A dare.”

“Well, duh. What else would it be? The whole town thinks your some bat shit psycho serial killer. I mean, can you blame them?”

Derek only growls in response.

“Look, man, I’m just trying to impress someone. There’s this girl. She’s gorgeous. Seriously. The most intoxicating cup of beautiful anyone ever fit into 62 inches of human. I was just trying to get her to notice me.”

He hopes it’s youthfully inconsiderate enough to sound true.

It takes a moment, but Derek backs off. He stands just far enough away to allow Stiles to slip past him and through the door. At the base of the rickety porch stairs, he spares a quick glance back to shoot Derek a half apologetic, half grateful look, but the door slams shut before either one can make eye contact.

Stiles doesn’t so much decide not to kill Derek as he decides to postpone. For now. Because something’s happened. Something big. He knows because the last time he felt a new emotion was the day he learned to kill without being noticed. He can hardly wait to see what latest offering Derek Hale has pared for Stiles.


	2. Chapter 2

Derek didn’t always used to be this way, he thinks as a woman shuffles her child hastily away at the grocery store. He wasn’t always the guy people turned their noses at, the sketchy man people snuck furtive glances towards. There was a time when the very thought would have made him laugh: little Derek Hale -- so shy his mom had to hold his hand all the way through preschool -- scaring all the mommies and daddies away.

He doesn’t like to think about Before, so sometimes he can’t be sure. But he thinks he remembers a time when he was happy. He gets wisps of memories every now and again, dancing and gleaming in his periphery. They shine with laughter and something he thinks might be joy. They waft through his nose and expand in his chest with the smell of vanilla and snow and late night campfires behind his house, and then he’s choking on the stench of burnt flesh and seared hair and that final pleading look in Cora’s eyes. The one he stared down before he--.

Derek doesn’t like to think about Before.

Except that sometimes he can’t help it. He walks past the BHHS lacrosse fields and remembers Coach Reynolds paying his mom a house call, remembers him insisting Derek join the team. He stubs his toe against the kitchen counter and remembers Peter laughing at a fourteen year-old version of himself, gangly and puberty-stricken and perpetually off balance. He bites into a slice of pizza, extra cheesy just the way Phil liked it, and remembers the way the skin melted off his dad’s face, stringy and droopy and swirled with tomato sauce red.

Derek doesn’t cry about it anymore. Sometimes he forgets how to breathe. Sometimes he forgets how to sleep. But he doesn’t cry about it anymore, and that is progress.

It’s this that finally brings Derek to Beacon Hills, small and woodsy and unnervingly quaint. It’s a town he’d never heard of before the spindly lawyer from Washington read them their inheritance: money, ashes, and a husk of a house way out in the middle of nowhere California. He and Laura had taken the money and fled – as far as they could get, to the opposite end of the country. Anywhere but there.

Derek’s better, now. He’s ready to come back to the home he never knew. He’s going to rebuild it, fix it up nice and shiny for all the neighbor folk to see, and then maybe some happy family will make it theirs and give it the warmth he never could.

Derek realizes that scaring all the townspeople might not be the best marketing strategy. He can’t imagine too many people clamoring at the chance to live in a house once inhabited by a rumored killer – as is apparently the latest theory. But he can’t exactly change who he’s become either. So he deals with it, turns away at the wary glances, backs away from the cagey whispers. He lets them fall into the background, blend hazy and blurred into the routine of his life in Beacon Hills, California. 

It really shouldn’t bother him so much when one stupid kid finally grows the balls enough to break into his house and tell him what’s what. It shouldn’t hurt him to hear what he already knows, suspicions confirmed, the final ringing of the gauntlet. 

Derek’s a monster and everyone knows it.

Maybe it’s the glint in his eyes or the slant of his shoulders. Maybe it’s his scent, odorless but virulent and stinking of wrong. Maybe it’s just Derek: his soul -- his essence -- entering a room and filling all those in proximity with dread and hopelessness. Whatever it is, he can’t hide it, can’t escape it. It follows him everywhere he goes. 

In some ways, he’s glad for it. Better that people see him for what he is than the alternative. Better that they know enough to keep away. 

Derek can’t be trusted.

That doesn’t make it hurt any less. He didn’t ask for this -- _what little boy dreams of becoming a beast?_ \-- but here he is, awful and tainted and fetid beyond redemption – same as he’s been his entire adult life, only now he’s got some punk ass kid forcing the truth of it down his throat.

He hates the kid. He’s hated him for as long as he’s known him. And while that particular period may consist entirely of the twenty-seven hours since he caught the wiry little bastard breaking into his house, it feels like he’s hated him his whole life.

It’s not that there’s anything different about him. He acts like any of the other bumbling teens Derek’s encountered in his years: overconfident to hide his utter lack of it, excessively loud to drown out the insecurities clanging in his mind, desperate for approval and masking it under a thousand petty grins and careless barbs.

It really shouldn’t bother him so much when this kid strolls into Derek’s life and tears down all the curtains with his thoughtless, bombastic prattle. But what should and shouldn’t be has never factored much in Derek’s life.

The thing is, Derek thinks that maybe this kid’s words weren’t so thoughtless after all. He looked the kid dead in the eyes as he said them, caught the flicker of amusement as the words resonated. Derek thinks this kid knew exactly what he was saying when he shared the town’s dark theories with Derek; and while Derek can’t deny the truth of it, he’s certainly not going to confirm it.

So maybe this kid sees right through Derek. Or maybe Derek’s just a paranoid fuck. Whatever the case, his hatred festers, insistent and shrill. It fills his head with a dizzying chorus until he can’t remember what he’s so mad about in the first place.

That, of course, is when the little shit comes back.

He’s been knocking at Derek’s door for the past ten minutes, stopping only to peek through the shuttered windows and call out nonsense comments. The taunts start out predictably enough, announcing his knowledge of Derek’s presence and assuring him that he only wants to talk. But right around the two-minute mark, the calls switch to warnings: a high enough deficit of natural sunlight will certainly lead to health problems in his old age, oh and by the way, did Derek know that Mr. Hudson from the movie rental store walks around his apartment in women’s clothing when his wife leaves for her book club on Thursday nights? Not that he’s been intentionally peeping in on him or anything, it’s just that—

Which is about the time when Derek decides he can’t take anymore, and wrenches the door open with a snarl meant to kick start the kid’s self-preservation instincts and scare him off once and for all. 

The kid beams. His grin is wide and open; it looks more like laughter than a smile. He looks so fucking happy, Derek wonders if he’s really the one everyone should be worried about. Normal people don’t take this much pleasure at the sight of a supposed serial killer. 

“What are you doing on my property? Again.”

The kid shoves a sweaty soda can in his face. 

“Ah… you’re supposed to take it,” he explains after a prolonged silence. The kid’s arm wavers in the air between them. “Uh… here. I’ll walk you through it. So, you take that hand there, yup, that’s the one. Keep twitching it just like that till it opens all the way. Then you just gotta raise it up a bit… uh, I said _raise it up a bit_ …. Wow. You really are having trouble with this. Here, I’ll just help you—“

Derek lashes out before the kid can get a hold of his arm. He grips the kid’s wrist hard enough to hurt, and digs into the pressure points he knows will force his hand open. The can hits the floor with a clang. It’s still rolling when Derek squeezes tighter and asks again. “What are you doing here?”

“Ow, ow, ow! Oh, my god, ow!” It’s like something out of a comedy sketch. The kid’s all loud exclamations and exaggerated facial expressions. His eyes and mouth stretch wide while his body flails out then hunches in as his knees buckle under the pain. He slaps at Derek’s arm with his free hand, but the motion seems more for comedic effect than out of any instinctive response. The kid doesn’t even look scared. Just somewhat inconvenienced. 

Derek shakes him. “Answer me.”

“I was just bringing you a housewarming gift. You know, like they do in the movies. Welcome to the neighborhood. Have some tuna casserole and Auntie May’s famous apple pie.” His voice is shaky and about eight octaves too high, but he shoots him a nervous grin, and Derek just knows the kid’s not going to leave until he says whatever he came to say.

“That’s not apple pie.” 

“Thank you, Captain Obvious. Ow, ow, ow! Okay, I ‘m sorry! I just meant, ah… I don’t actually know how to make apple pie. And tuna casserole just sounds like it’d be really gross. And this was more of a spur of the moment thing, with not so much of the planning. And I stopped at the convenience store on the way here anyway for some Skittles, which I would totally offer you if I hadn’t already eaten them all on the way here – emotional eater. That’s me. Just fyi, you’re kinda scary – ow, ow, ow!”

“Get to the point.”

“Yes! Point! Getting there! Please accept this soda as a token of my appreciation for not having killed or called the cops on me yesterday or adding me to your secret collection of experimental zombies or whatever other creeper things psycho killers keep locked up in their basements --- no, wait! Not that you are one. I’m just saying-- for the love of god, please let go. I think they’re gonna have to amputate. Oh, god. I’m gonna be the one-armed weirdo everyone stares at. I’m gonna have to rework my entire ten-year plan to get Lydia Martin to marry me. I’m gonna— oh, sweet jesus, _yes_.

Derek watches the pale arm hang limply for a moment before it’s swept into a tender cradle. The stupid kid coos at it like it’s a fucking baby. The whole scene is so absurd, Derek darts his eyes about the property, certain he’ll find sniggering kids waiting to jump out and punk him. Or whatever it is ass hole kids do these days. 

Scattered leaves and trees stare back at him. 

The kid starts staring, too. 

“Watcha lookin’ at?” 

Derek reaches back for the doorknob. 

“Aw, come on. Don’t close the door on me, man.”

“I’m not your man.”

“Well, no. If you want it then you gotta put a ring on it.”

Derek has no idea what the fuck that means.

“Wait, wait, wait! Okay. Sorry. That was really lame. I swear I’m not trying to pick you up.”

Pick him… Derek feels the tell tale twinge between his eyes a moment before a headache sets in.

“Look. I’m just trying to say I’m sorry. For the other day. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“What: break in or call me a psychotic serial killer?”

“Well—I—Okay, first of all, let me just say that that was not me. I would never. What you heard yesterday was nothing more or less than a very terrified, out of his wits, improvise-‘till-told-otherwise, panic-mode Stiles.”

“Style?”

“Stile _s_. S. There’s an S.”

“Multiple styles.”

“No. Just the one. Me. Stiles. With an I.” Derek blinks. “Uh… you know. As in, that’s what people call me. It’s generally referred to as a name, though I guess some literary aficionados might also call it a moniker. I’m guessing you have one, too. Unless your parents were too indecisive to settle on one, which, I would not judge at all ‘cause I can totally see that happening to me, and…. I’m gonna stop now.” 

Derek has exactly no suitable responses to the word vomit he just heard. The kid nods to himself in the ensuing silence.

“So…. Can I come in?”

That at least is something he knows the response to. “No.”

“Aw, come on. I just wanna tell you I’m sorry.”

“You already did.”

“Yeah, but those are just words. I have to _show_ you I’m sorry. You know, actions speak louder than words, and all that jazz.”

“You’re not coming into my house.”

“But I can help. You like, put wood together, right?”

The kid is either really stupid or a real fucking wise ass. “Something like that.”

“Well, I took shop last year.”

“So now you’re a regular carpenter.”

“Exactly.”

Derek gets the door halfway closed before a hand shoots out to stop him. 

“Look, man. You gotta let me help. I have to make amends or this whole thing’ll eat at me for days. Seriously. I’ve got an obsessive personality. I won’t be able to breathe right for _days_.”

“And that’s my problem how?”

“It’s not. But… if you don’t let me in, I’ll just keep banging at your door, day after day, until you finally give in. I mean, seriously. You have to know this is gonna happen whether either of us wants it to or not. It’s only a matter of time.”

The kid -- _Stiles_ nods almost solemnly. As if Derek doesn’t know perfectly well that he could call the cops and have the kid off his property within the hour. But it would require more attention than Derek’s comfortable with, and Derek really doesn’t want to give the town any more fodder for gossip.

He runs briefly through a myriad of alternatives – yell at the kid, threaten to call the cops, slam the door in his face and plug in a pair of ear plugs for the next foreseeable future – but none of them offers any real solution. The kid’s a parasite. He’s not going to leave till he’s sucked Derek dry – of what, he’s not sure. His sanity, maybe. He seems like the kind of loud-mouthed punk who gets off on driving people halfway crazy.

Derek eyes him a moment longer. He’s vibrating all over, practically bursting with energy: grinning arrogantly as he waggles his brows and jiggles his knee and types along an invisible keyboard – all while waiting for a response. It’s like he can’t stop moving. His body language is so kinetic, it’s almost blinding. It’s dizzying. Derek can hardly think straight just looking at him. 

But he’s got to make a decision, and fast – he’s already behind on the commission for a ranch-style diner from one of the neighboring towns. He doubts this kid’ll be anything more than a nuisance inside, but maybe – just maybe -- he’ll be a less time-consuming and distracting one once he finally stops trying to convince Derek to let him in. 

(It amazes Derek, the unique and unpredictable ways in which fate serves him his due punishments.)

“Fine.” The word comes out curt enough to let the kid know exactly how excited he is by the prospect, but he might as well have sung it for all the notice he shows. He beams at him, chirping out an overly enthusiastic “sweet!” as he slips beneath Derek’s raised arm and past the entrance.

Well, that’s just fine. He won’t be smiling for long. Derek’s going to make sure of it. 

“This isn’t fun time. You came here to help? Then help. There’s a set of wooden planks in the basement. Bring them up. All of them.”

“What? No refreshments first?” 

“Would you rather leave?”

“Nope. No. Manual labor’s fine. Upper body strength, here I come.” And with that, he dashes, first into the living room closet -- quickly followed by a yelp and a bravado-filled “ha! I bet you thought I did that by accident. Totally knew that was the closet” – and then down the basement stairs, limbs flailing wildly along the way.

Derek spends the next twenty minutes alternating between flinching growls and puckish grins. The kid’s clumsier than a newborn doe; he bangs and fumbles and scrapes the planks as he drags them up the stairs. At one point, he outright drops one, and it’s anyone’s guess which one is louder: the clattering wood as it tumbles down the steps, or Stiles, who swears and yelps and honest to god shrieks. 

“Everything’s fine! We’re fine! That is, the wood and I. Both of us. All of us. Totally fine. Totally fine, and definitely not broken.”

The kid grows sweatier with every trip, increasingly out of breath each time he makes it up the stairs. He’s got one of those faces that streaks itself red with exertion, twin patches marring his face on either cheek and down his neck. It’d be funny if it weren’t so pathetic. Though really, it’s pretty funny too from Derek’s standpoint. Serves the kid right.

He’s not sure whether he feels more annoyed or impressed when, another fifteen minutes later, the kid turns to him and grins just as happily as before. “Whoo! That’s the last of ‘em. What’s next?”

“Hand me the ratchet.”

“Uh…. Here.”

“That’s a crescent wrench.”

“Right. Yeah. I knew that.”

“I thought you took shop.”

“Well, technically, it was more of me accidentally walking into shop. Tricky thing, navigating your way through the course schedule on the first day of school.”

Derek doesn’t know why he expected anything else.

“Hey, you think learning all this wood cutting stuff will make me more sexually appealing?” The kid flops to the floor, arms stretched out behind him to support his weight as he gazes intently at Derek. The ratchet remains untouched.

“That would require you to actually learn all this ‘wood cutting stuff.’” Derek reaches brusquely for the ratchet himself only to have his arm knocked hastily away. 

“Ah, ah, ah! Hands off. I’m the tool-retriever here.”

“Then stop wasting my time and retrieve.” Derek grits the words so hard, he’s surprised they don’t come out as finely ground dust.

“Alright, alright. No need to get snippy.”

Derek clenches his jaw and takes the proffered tool without a word. He works in silence for a few seconds. Then it opens its mouth again.

“No, seriously, though. You think I could convince Lydia to date me if I show her some mad shop skills?”

“Sure. Why not?” He tries not to grunt the words too disingenuously. Anything to shut the kid up.

“Really?” The words punch out of him so vigorously, Derek actually pauses to look up. The grin is back. Face splitting, and shining. He looks exultant, bordering on manic. Derek’s never seen anyone shine so incomprehensibly bright. 

The thought fills him with an odd sensation, coats him in something oily and wrong. He shrugs in an attempt to physically rid himself of the uncomfortable feeling; but it remains, dripping down his back like nervous sweat. He goes back to work. 

“No one believes it’ll ever happen for us. Me and Lydia, I mean. But I do. Anything can happen.”

The kid nods to himself as if acknowledging some unvoiced response.

“Take Scott. He’s my best friend. We’ve been losers together forever. And by losers, I mean so progressively cool, no one our age can actually appreciate it just yet.”

Stiles spreads his legs a little wider, arches his neck a little longer. He’s a model of youthful confidence and foolish bravado. He broadcasts a level of comfort that discomfits Derek, draping himself along the floor like he owns the place. It’s been a long time since anyone’s been stupid enough to let their guard down around Derek.

“Anyway, we were supposed to go through high schools as losers in solidarity, two uncool amigos making it through the unethical social experiment that is high school together, one day at a time. And I mean, we’re still like, amigos, only… now Scott’s cool and I’m not.”

Insecurity softens his words. 

“Yeah, well, people move on.” The remark tastes as bitter on his tongue as it feels in his chest. “They forget about you and they move on. That’s just the way life is.” 

Stiles’ lips twitch like he’s trying not to frown. “Scott’s not like that.”

“If you say so.”

“He’s not.”

Derek doesn’t respond, but neither does Stiles, so Derek counts it as a win. 

Derek spends two whole blessed minutes in silence as he works another screw into the base of the bench before the kid speaks up again.

“I didn’t actually finish making my point.”

Derek’s only acknowledgement is an involuntary flinch. Disappointment really shouldn’t surprise him anymore.

“What I was _trying_ to say before you so rudely interrupted me with your totally unnecessary commentary was that if Scott can do it, so can I.”

“Hand me the wrench.”

To Derek’s surprise, he does.

“I’m telling you, it’s way easier than people think. I mean, one day Scott was a nobody, and the next, he was sitting with Lydia Martin and Jackson Grossmoore – I know. Not very witty. I’m working on it – and actually hanging out with the high school elite. And all because he made first string.”

“Chisel. Bevel edge.”

“Uh… this one?” 

It’s a straight edge, but it’ll do. Derek nods.

“Cool. Anyway, I can’t play lacrosse for shit, but I am one hundred percent positive that I am definitely skilled in some other totally badass thing that I have yet to discover. Hence, this little woodshop tutorial.”

“I thought this was supposed to be an apology.”

“That too.”

Derek’s glare falls on blind eyes. 

“So I was thinking you should tell me everything about everything relating to wood and its finer qualities. Like this thing. What the heck even is this? Are you supposed to, like, pluck out hibernating worms with it or something? And what about this? It’s kind of—“

“Hey, why don’t you shut up for a bit? I can’t concentrate with you yapping so much.” 

“All the more reason to keep trying. Multitasking is a highly advantageous skill. I should know. I multitask twenty-four seven. Even now. I bet you think I’ve been totally focused on this conversation. Which I have.”

He really needs to find a way to shut this kid up. “Kid—“ 

“But not exclusively. I’ve been doing a million other things while talking to you.”

Shut up, shut up, shut up. 

“Listen—“ 

“In the last five minutes alone, I’ve already figured out my grocery list and the last problem on my pre-calc homework and how I’m gonna—“

Oh, for the love of god.

“Would you just shut up for a second and— _shit_.” The curse escapes him in a low hiss as a dollop of blood wells up from the fleshy part of his palm. He has an instant to see the outline of the cut before it’s drowned beneath a messy stream of red. It spills over and down his wrist, across his thumb. The cut is deep enough that Derek’s grudgingly uncertain a quick do-it-yourself, bandage job will be enough to staunch the flow.

He shoves his chair back and heads over to the living room closet regardless, pulling out the first aid kit he placed there almost as an afterthought when moving in. It’s not often that he lets his hands slip while at work. 

He pries the box open, hoping the contents of the box will be enough. But the blood is everywhere, and it seeps into the gauze inside almost as soon as he lifts the lid. He’s making a mess of things before he’s even tried peeling open a wrapper; Laura’s the one who always knew how to deal with these things. 

It’s only then that he realizes the kid hasn’t said a word. Flamboyant as the kid is, he would’ve expected him to have let loose at least some sort of reaction by now. A shout or a gasp or a few successive, freaked out _oh my god_ ’s, at the very least. But the room is silent. 

Derek lifts his head in his direction. The sight that greets him is almost eerie. Stiles sits motionless where Derek left him. The animation zapped right out of him: his arms, his legs, his hands. Even his face remains unnaturally still, eyes focused and narrowed, lips pursed with just the slightest of ‘ _o_ ’s parting them at the center. He looks both dimmer and brighter at once: the youthful liveliness no longer lighting his features, but a new map of red charting across his cheeks. 

He’s staring at Derek’s hand.

It figures. All that chest puffing and tail feather shaking, the kid was bound to be a regular daisy. Can’t even handle the sight of a little blood. It was probably taking him every ounce of self-restraint to keep from fainting or puking. Or both. Derek hopes he wins out on the latter effort at least. He prefers his floors vomit free, thank you very much. 

With an audible sigh, Derek turns back to the task at hand. He rolls out a length of blood-stained gauze and tears it off between his teeth. He takes a few moments to begin his shoddy attempt at self-bandaging before turning back to let Stiles off the hook. 

“You don’t have to stay. Not like I’m gonna be getting much more work done now, anyway.”

And just like that, Stiles jerks back to life. Derek blinks. A flash of memory projects across his vision in the darkness behind his lids. Derek’s parents bought him a toy robot once. It drove the whole family crazy for weeks before they finally made him give it away, startling everyone within a thirty-foot radius every time Derek turned it on: spasmodic limb convulsions and robotic sirens. 

This is a lot like that. In an instant, Stiles goes from lifeless toy robot to apoplectic squid. He’s all limbs and grins and quick-flowing words. He pops up from his seat and strides swiftly towards Derek while berating him for improper first aid.

“Dude, you need to clean that out first.” And then he’s dragging Derek towards the kitchen sink, right hand firm and unrelenting around Derek’s wrist. The kid’s stronger than he looks.

The first splash of water stings. But the pain is short lived, and the cold stream quickly offers a much welcome relief. The blood clears long enough to see the cut, which upon second inspection is perhaps less worrisome than he thought. Stiles cuts the water off and grabs a tube of antiseptic and a cotton swab from the kit still clutched in Derek’s uninjured fist. 

“Scott’s mom’s a nurse. She may or may not have had to patch me up a couple dozen times before finally just teaching me how to take care of the occasional video game injury on my own.” 

For all his clumsiness and full-body flailing, Stiles applies the gel with surprising dexterity before reaching back for the gauze.

“Video game injury?”

“Do not ask questions you do not wish the answers to.”

The kid’s trying to be funny. He thinks. It’s not funny. Not even a little bit. But he stretches the gauze carefully over Derek’s hand, and the comment is a little less irritating than everything else he’s said today.

“Anyway, I don’t think this is bad enough to need stitches,” he continues as he loops the gauze around Derek’s hand a second time, “but you should definitely ease up on the macho wood cutting stuff for a bit while it heals.” He cuts off the end of the gauze with an efficient snip.

“The ‘macho wood cutting stuff’ is my job.” He means to spit the words out – his advice is both stupid and patronizing – but the kid smoothes a soothing thumb across the swathe of gauze hiding the cut, and he can’t work up the anger.

“Hmm. Good point. I guess you’ll just have to be extra careful then.” The kid grins like he’s sharing an inside joke with Derek. He’s still cradling Derek’s hand between his own, surprisingly larger ones. They’re warm. Derek doesn’t pull away. “You might even say you could do with an extra pair of hands.”

Oh, no.

“No.” He moves to break the contact, but a set of steadfast fingers hold him in place. It hurts. The fingers grip him by the wrist, but the hold tugs at the skin around his cut. Derek holds very still. 

“Aw, come on!”

His grip tightens. Derek’s not sure if the kid is oblivious to the pain he’s causing him or if he just doesn’t care; either way, he’s tired of playing these bullshit games. He’s putting an end to this now. 

“Let go.”

“I just wanna help. You’ll bust your hand worse if you try finishing everything yourself. Admit it: you need me.”

“I don’t need you.” He moves to tear his hand away again; and this time, the kid doesn’t try to stop him. But he follows Derek as he makes his way back to the living room, rubbing heatedly at the place where the kid’s grip has left him cold and aching. People shouldn’t touch him. He doesn’t like it. It leaves him angry and hollow-feeling and like maybe he should never venture out beyond his own four walls again. 

“Okay, fine. You don’t need me. But wouldn’t it be easier with someone else to ease the workload?”

“Not if that someone is you.” He picks up the chisel where he left it and sits down to continue where he left off.

“But I’m offering you free labor! Who says no to free labor?”

“Anti-slavery advocates.”

There’s a pause long enough that Derek looks up to make sure the kid didn’t spontaneously combust – he can’t think of many other things that could manage to actually shut him up – and it’s a moment before he can put a name to the look on his face: shock. 

“Did you must make a joke?”

“No.” He really didn’t.

“Dude. You totally did.”

“Dude. I totally didn’t.”

“Oh, my god. There you go again!”

“Mocking your ‘Cali bro’ twang isn’t a joke.”

“Well, for normal people, no. But for you, it’s practically a whole comedy sketch.”

The thing is, he says it with what looks like genuine pride gleaming in his eyes. Like he’s actually happy about Derek’s supposed newfound comedy skills. Like he’s not just making fun of Derek. Even if it is a backhanded compliment. It’s a lot like the way Laura used to tease him. Right before flicking his temple and tossing her hair. For a moment, the scent of jasmine fills the air; Derek’s pretty sure having his lungs ripped out wouldn’t hurt this much. 

“Hey. You okay?”

He’s still there. They both are. 

There are thoughts in his head, creeping and nagging no matter how hard he tries to rip them apart. Tear them to pieces, shreds, tiny iota that disappear from being. 

Derek really wishes Stiles would leave already.

“Derek?” A hand presses against his shoulder, and Derek jerks so violently, he falls off his stool and stupidly braces himself with his injured hand.

“Ah, fuck!”

“I’m sorry!” The kid looks terrified, suddenly. Small and shrinking back, uncertain for the first time. His eyes are wide, brows furrowed. He’s hugging his hands to his chest, like it’s his fault Derek’s hand is on fire. Like he’s the reason Derek’s a psychotic ass hole, neurotic and stupid and so fucked up he can’t stand to be touched. 

He was happy before. Cocky, but so fucking full of life, his whole face lit up with his smile. Now, he’s just a scared little kid blaming himself for things he doesn’t understand. Derek did that. Derek snuffed his light out. Just like he does with everyone who offers him even the smallest wisp of kindness.

“Go home, kid.”

Derek’s not sure whether he’s more relieved or disappointed when the kid finally listens to him. He backs away without another word, limbs coiled tightly around his frame. The rumble of the engine strengthens his relief, and after a few moments, the dying sound solidifies it. It’s better this way.

Derek’s shoulder aches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ConCrit welcome.

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously, though. So psyched. Dark!fic is my absolute favorite. It makes up the majority of my favorite fics, but I'm always really hesitant to write it myself. Perhaps because I like the genre so much, it terrifies me to think I might muck it up by contributing complete shit. So. Uh. Hopefully it's not shit?
> 
> <3


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